


Friends of Old

by Naamah_Beherit



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack - sort of, Gen, Implied Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6956848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naamah_Beherit/pseuds/Naamah_Beherit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saruman becomes interested in a certain piece of jewellery. Sauron is bored and decides he wants to have a talk with an acquaintance of old. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends of Old

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a serious fic. At least it wasn’t supposed to be, but as usually, the story chose its own direction. At least I managed to restrain myself well enough not to let this become just another multichapter monster-fic full of drama and angst.  
> Baby steps, right?  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own anything you recognise. It's written merely for kicks and giggles.

In his dreams, Saruman heard someone calling his name.

It was not one of names the people of Middle-earth knew him by. Neither was it any of those that had been long since discarded. It was not even a name by which he defined himself.

The word that was used was ancient, almost forgotten, one that no longer conveyed familiarity and comfort.

In his dreams, someone softly whispered, “Curumo”.

Saruman thought he misheard something, that a bizarre play of wind echoing within Orthanc created sounds to which his imagination conjured up a meaning.

“Curumo?”

He woke up and thought of discoloured images of places he could no longer picture clearly in his mind. He thought of his youth, of those blissful years devoid of worries, misery and death.

“Curumo!”

He was wary; his mind must be playing him, making him believe to have heard voices that were never there in the first place. And in the end, silence fell over Orthanc again, and his heart suddenly began to ache with a blinding longing he did not realise he harboured.

A deep sigh could be heard and he was _almost_ certain that it was not him who let it out.

“Curumo,” there was that voice again and this time it was _definitely_ not a whisper, “can you even hear me, you ginger twat?”

* * *

Saruman stared at the _palantír_ , and the _palantír_ stared back.

“I was beginning to think that I would have to keep calling for another few hundred years or something to finally get your attention,” it said in a voice Saruman hoped to never hear again.

He sighed. The _palantír_ laughed. A few stray birds nesting on top of Orthanc’s battlements hastily took flight at that sound, realising that a nearby forest _surely_ was a better place to lay their eggs.

“Whatever it is you want to achieve by bothering me, you will not succeed,” Saruman said in a voice he hoped to be stern.

“Am I not allowed to try and keep in touch with a colleague of mine? Where are your manners, Curumo?”

Saruman never presumed that it was possible for him to have a headache. However, a dull throbbing that lodged itself somewhere behind his eyes and felt as if Aulë himself were repeatedly beating him with a hammer, stubbornly wanted to convince him that yes, the Istari were in fact susceptible to that particular affliction.

“I know that you missed me, I noticed that in—what in Melkor’s name are you _doing_?!”

Saruman threw his cloak onto the _palantír_ and left the chamber without a second glance. He did not return there for the next few weeks. Neither did the birds.

He _did_ have to find another cloak, though.

* * *

“I knew you would not be able to resist.”

Saruman sighed heavily and risked a glance at a fiery tempest reflected in the _palantír_. That insufferable Maia always loved fire, he remembered.

“I _do_ need that cloak,” he muttered under his breath. Although barely audible, his words were heard.

“Oh, could it be that wizarding does not pay much?” Sauron laughed gleefully and Saruman felt that almost like a physical punch in the gut.

Many things changed in the years that passed, but not that laughter of his. It sounded exactly as it used to all those ages ago when he had still been Mairon the Admirable, the best smith amongst all of the Maiar of Aulë. He had sometimes shared titbits of his craft with his kin, watched them try to implement those hints and burst out laughing whenever they had failed. It had been so precious, so rarely heard from the perfectionist that Mairon had been.

In the end, everything had changed and he had laughed only for Morgoth.

“I like this one,” Saruman finally said, though it was more of a groan than a coherent sentence.

“Is it the only one you have?” Sauron joyfully asked as if they were talking about the weather. Truth be told, Saruman wondered if the other Maia had any shard of sanity left in that burning mind of his.

The wizard’s imagination happily provided him with a long forgotten memory of that fiery red hair and golden eyes he used to admire. He pushed that memory back to where it belonged, buried deep in his subconscious with other things that were no longer possible and brought only pain.

“No,” he objected, but with no real conviction.

“You know, Curumo,” the voice from the _palantír_ sweetly continued and hearing that name again suddenly made Saruman nauseous, “you could always visit me to get rid of those overused robes and get a proper armour. I have got a truly _wonderful_ forge set up here. I could even let you use it, you know, just like the old times. Me and you, the forge and its fire...”

Saruman did not know that this mortal body of his could run so fast.

* * *

“Tell me about the Ring,” he asked at some point, realising that if those talks were not going to cease any time soon – not for the lack of trying on his part – he could at least find out something useful.

Or so he told himself.

“Do you not know what a ring is?” Sauron asked, his voice full of joy and mischief. Saruman always believed Mairon to be the reasonable one, the one that could at least partially act as the common sense for that embodiment of chaos that Morgoth was.

He would not admit that he was curious about the attitude that was so unlike the other Maia, not even to himself.

“’Do not play a fool, Gorthaur,” he snapped at the _palantír_. It crackled with laughter.

“Well, I can tell you that _my_ Ring is exquisite,” Sauron replied and Saruman could _feel_ that something changed in his voice, although if asked, he would be unable to determine what gave him that impression.

“Once a megalomaniac, always a megalomaniac, isn’t it?” he suggested dryly and was met with another soft chuckle.

Why was Sauron so happy anyway? It was not like his life was full of joy and wonders...

“This has nothing to do with my self-esteem, it is merely a statement of a fact,” he replied smugly. “Everyone knows it, including you. Otherwise, why would you be looking for it yourself?”

Saruman jerked backwards as if caught on doing something questionable. Like trying out some of those herbs Radagast was so fond of, perhaps. That was something he would never do.

All right, maybe one time. Just once. For knowledge.

“Did you really think I would not find out?” Sauron asked and suddenly there was no more joy in his voice, only cold calculation and brilliant intellect he was unable to hide even if he wanted to. That was the voice that doomed the Númenóreans. “Who do you take me for, a fool? You are just as subtle as it was expected from one of Aulë’s puppets, only a blind Noldo would not figure out what you are up to. Coming to think of it, how is that Finarfin’s spawn doing? Did she finally manage to wash the blood of her kin off her hands?”

“Watch your tongue, that is Lady Galadriel you are insulting!” Saruman huffed in indignation, although as soon as those words were out of his mouth, he wondered why he even cared at all.

“Yes, I know, I thought it was obvious of whom I spoke,” Sauron commented dryly. “But if you need everything handed to you on a plate, then so be it. Has Galadriel of Lothlórien realised yet that you want to claim my Ring for yourself?”

“All I want of that thing is for it to be destroyed and for you to be sent to the Void to your master so that your spirit no longer mars Middle-earth!”

There was nothing but flames in the _palantír_ , but the wizard was certain that he saw a smirk. Or maybe that was just a reflection of himself, an unconscious grimace born of partially acknowledged awareness of lying to himself.

“You could go home then, couldn’t you, Curumo?” Sauron asked, his voice sweet and soft like a velvet. “Back to Valinor to their mellow stagnation and order, where nothing ever happens and nothing changes. You’re a wise and revered wizard here, the leader of your order. And there? You will be no one there, just yet another Maia among many hammering on for Aulë’s glory. Is that what you want? _Ages_ spent on doing what others envisioned for you and did not even bother to ask if you were content with the fate bestowed on you.”

Saruman wanted to leave, _needed_ to leave, to smash the stone and never look back—

He did not. He stayed and watched fire reach out to the very core of his being, and he _let_ it.

“It will not be long before only the Secondborn are left in Middle-earth,” Sauron went on and all of a sudden those were the most reasonable words Saruman heard in a long time. Something very small and very old was screaming in his mind, desperately trying to get his attention. Whatever it was, he ignored it. “We can be gods to them, we already _are_ , it is just a matter of reaching out and taking what is rightfully ours. The Valar have forsaken Arda long ago and even Eru himself does not seem to care for his Children anymore.”

Saruman regarded the _palantír_ and made a decision. “Very well,” he said, “you have my attention, Mairon.”

He felt the flames consume him, and it was _glorious_.


End file.
